


Help (Oh Well)

by Bookworm39



Category: Super Smash Brothers, 光神話 | Kid Icarus (Video Games), 新・光神話 パルテナの鏡 | Kid Icarus: Uprising (Video Game)
Genre: ADHD, Anxiety Attacks, Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder, Dark Pit Has ADHD, Emotional Dysregulation, Gen, Hurt No Comfort, Intrusive Thoughts, It's not super clear but it is set during smash, MAN I wish I knew better how to tag this..., Mental Health Issues, POV Second Person, Panic Attacks, Pit has ADHD, Self-Harm, Sensory Overload, Suicidal Thoughts, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, barely edited, but if I knew how this should be tagged I wouldn't need to write it., internalized ableism, possible ooc, vent fic, well like... a tiny bit of comfort that is super bittersweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-06
Updated: 2021-01-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28568541
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bookworm39/pseuds/Bookworm39
Summary: You can't say anything, so you say nothing. Everything will be fine.(Vent 'fic)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Help (Oh Well)

**Author's Note:**

> Anyway headcanon time: both the guys have ADHD but their symptoms are somewhat different (Pit has more hyperactivity and inattentiveness with a slightly heavier dose of executive dysfunction, whereas Pittoo is more impulsiveness, aggression and emotional dysregulation) and also Pit's been on meds for decades and have developed strategies with Palutena so he's coping quite a bit better than Dark Pit send tWEET  
> I'm a bit sorry for dumping this here outta nowhere, especially as my first upload of 2021, but I thought it might help me. I have I think three other ADHD!Pittoo fic ideas? One is another vent, but more fluffy/"I'm gonna write the other half of my +DP Smash rarepair being supportive and loving b/c I Can"; one is human!AU for Bad Things Happen Bingo's Sensory Overload space; and one's the slightly-crack idea I had and got attached to for how he figures out he has ADHD. Those should all be more put-together and clean than this-I leaned into word vomit for this, just finding part of the page and typing what came to mind.  
> One more thing: title is taken from the song by Adam Ortiz/SomeThingElseYT. The title and chorus were a Big Mood, which should make sense after reading, and the 'even rhythm, frantic rap lyrics' was also too fitting. Also, I've just been listening to it a lot lately.

This isn’t right. No, not that either. Hit skip. Fingers digging into cloth in the other hand. You don’t want to be alone. You can’t be out there. Not now. Heart’s pounding, you don’t want that, can’t take the extra noise-

You don’t talk about it to them. Why bother, when you can’t force the words out, make them understand. You say “I don’t like reading,” because it’s easier than “I’ve tried to learn, I really have, and maybe I _could_ if I got help, but that requires telling somebody I’m illiterate.” “There’s some kinda stress meter in my head that fills up randomly, I don’t know why exactly, but when it does I have a panic attack, so I’m scared to spend too much time with too many people and fry my brain” is too much; “antisocial” is easier. “A bit impulsive” isn’t the wrong answer, but it doesn’t carry the weight that “I keep doing reckless things that almost get me killed (I might’ve been suicidal at one point but I’m not sure) and I don’t know how to stop it” does.

It’s too loud again. Fingers digging into your scalp. You don’t know why you think hurting yourself will make it better, but you’re pretty sure it does, it so hard to tell when it’s all so much-

Trying to talk about it is like pulling teeth, so you don’t. You just hold your breath and snap at them when it finally gets to be too much and storm off and everyone thinks you’re an asshole but it’s better than having to tell them that you’re broken. And you can brush it off later and maybe they’re annoyed but you can pretend they aren’t and maybe they’re not, it’s not like you can tell.

And now it’s too still. It’s all still there in your head, it’s still too much, but it’s not blaring static or buzzing or whirring it’s just there-

“Back off.”

_Someday they’re going to grow tired of dealing with you. They’ll abandon you. You’re hurting them. You’re hurting yourself. You need ot do something. You can’t keep living like this. How long’s it gonna take for you to snap and off yourself while you’re ripping your feathers out and throwing something across the room-it would finally get all that energy out for good. You could finally be still._

It was too easy to pull back. Just a few hours-several hours sometimes-of hell, and it was fine again. You could act like it was fine again. And nobody had to worry, because nobody saw you curled up with a music player, skipping frantically, trying to find something fast enough to keep up with you but not so fast that it made things worse, sometimes buried under a blanket and sometimes half-undressed with your nails digging into your arms. They just saw the sour look on your face before you disappeared back into your room, and maybe, _maybe_ the relief on your face when they saw you again.

It shouldn’t be so easy to feel normal again, because then you can ignore it. You can refuse to try to fix it, because broaching the subject is somehow just as bad as-

As-

As-

“Are you okay? You went really quiet all of a sudden.”

_Stop thinking about it stop thinking about it you make it worse stop thinking about it stop thinking about it **stop** thinking about ~~it~~ stop thinking about it stop **thinking** about it ~~stop~~ thinking about it **tsop** **thinkign** about ikt-_

You can’t talk about it. You can’t even think about it. And you know he means well when he says “Y’know, medication would really help you” and “You can talk to me, if you need,” but he isn’t in there listening to that medical deity who clearly has no clue how to treat you, and you can’t even get past “You don’t fuckin’ get to talk” before your words stick in your throat.

“Look, you just need to talk to the doc-”

“I’ve tried! Do you think I’m not trying!?” (You’re not trying anymore, though.)

(You blow that outburst off as you being tired; you’ll keep it up. You haven’t bothered going to an appointment in four months and he doesn’t have to know. But that morning, once he smiles and says, “Okay, just… take care of yourself, got it?” you know you can be okay again, at least for now. You don’t know when that’ll change, but you tell yourself it’ll be a while.)

It’s fine. _Hold yourself together._ And yet scolding yourself is extra input and your head won’t stop, it’s going too fast and too much is in there and there’s too much around you and it’s too fast-

Soon you’re on the floor of your bedroom, listening to something with a slower, even beat and slightly unsettling lyrics (because that’s the easiest way to find something the right speed that isn’t sad), sucking in a deep breath. Tears are flowing down your face-you were enjoying yourself, what happened?

Please, I just want to-

Thoughts won’t work. Like when you lose your voice, but all in your mind. Pathetic. Make it stop. Why won’t it stop? It’s getting worse again. Stop trying to solve the problem, you only make it worse.

When you finally leave, it's been longer than usual, and you're not as close to normal as you'd like, but you need food and something to drink. Somebody notices the look in your eyes, but you just push past with a nod. It's not like they could help. It's not like you can ask for it.

And so you say nothing.


End file.
